When my son says "fine," it could mean anything from "I had the best day ever" to "the world is ending, but I don't have the energy to explain why." The contextual clues are everything - is he raiding the fridge while saying it? That's positive. Is he staring at his phone without blinking? Proceed with caution.
I've learned that food is currency in this new relationship. The boy who once wrinkled his nose at my homemade lasagna now consumes it like it's his last meal, along with everything else in a five-foot radius. I now hide snacks I want for myself like they're precious jewels.
Privacy has become both sacred and suspicious. His bedroom door remains firmly closed, opening only for food deliveries or Wi-Fi troubleshooting. I've accepted that knocking is not a suggestion but a survival tactic.
The most fascinating discovery has been witnessing his transformation in different contexts. The monosyllabic creature who communicates exclusively through headshakes at home somehow becomes eloquent and animated around his friends.
But then there are those rare, golden moments when the armor cracks - late-night conversations about a difficult class, an unexpected sideways hug, or walking past his room to see him video chatting with his younger cousin, patiently helping with math homework.
These boys of ours - they're crossing the rickety bridge between childhood and manhood, trying not to look down.
Our job isn't to carry them across but to stand nearby, pretending we're not watching every step, ready to catch them if they fall.
And sometimes, just to bring them snacks.
[Thanks, Christelle]
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